


In The Mourning Hours

by Triangulum



Series: The Hours [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always Female Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Minor Character Death, More angst than I usually do, Oral Sex, Stiles Breaks From the Pack, Stiles is Legal, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: Chris knows Stiles will tire of him eventually, and why shouldn't she? He doesn't know why she's bothering with him in the first place when she can have someone her own age, someone less damaged, with a long life before them. When he asks her this, she laughs a bit hollowly and says, "I'm just as damaged as you are. What would I do with a bright and shiny boy my own age?" Well, he hadn't had an answer for that. Until she decides she's through with him, he'll give her everything.OrStargent porn that got plotty and sad.





	In The Mourning Hours

**Author's Note:**

> See notes at the end for minor character death info.

"Chris," Stiles whines, braced above him. He's on his back, her sweet cunt stretched around his cock. Stiles is riding him slowly, has been for the last half hour. Sometimes she wants it rough and fast, to feel him pounding into her, leaving her insides tender and sore. Other times she wants this, to set the pace. Sometimes she needs to feel some semblance of control. They both know he could easily get out from under her, that he's giving her this, but that's fine, it's the illusion of it that she needs. 

Chris' hands grip tightly at her waist, helping her movements when her thighs start trembling on either side of him. She raises and lowers herself on his cock, head thrown back, sweat beading at her hairline. She's beautiful like this, raw. Stiles has been at this for a while though and he can tell she's getting tired. She drops down, sheathing his entire cock inside her, and rotates her hips, grinding her clit against him.

"That's it, take what you need," he murmurs. 

Chris trails his hands up her torso, taking her breasts in his hands and squeezing the way he knows she loves, flicking his fingers over her sensitive nipples. She gasps and tightens around him, starting to quiver. He wants to flip them, to have her under him and gasping, writhing as he brings her off again and again, but that's not what she wants right now. Later, maybe, or tomorrow. But tonight, he'll be what she needs.

Stiles tenses when she comes, her sweet cunt fluttering around his cock, pulling his orgasm from him. He groans as he comes, spilling inside her. He'd insisted on using condoms at first, not willing to impregnate an eighteen-year-old, but then she'd shown him the medical proof stating she's infertile and, well, he can't deny how good it feels to fuck her bare. 

Stiles collapses forward onto him, tucking her head under his chin. It's nothing for him to take her weight, slip of a girl that she is. He doesn't pull out, but wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly. He's going to hell, he knows this, for all his past sins and now for regularly fucking a barely-legal girl. He doesn't care.

When he softens completely, slipping out of her, he reaches between them, sliding two fingers easily into her cunt before she can complain, knowing how much she hates being empty after they fuck. She clenches down on his fingers and sighs contentedly. She doesn't always stay. She has a father to go home to and a pack to see, but tonight it seems she's his.

Chris nudges her when when she starts to doze, earning him some grumbling.

"What?" she asks.

"You're going to be pissed if I let you fall asleep without brushing your teeth again," he says.

"But you're some comfy," she says, burrowing closer.

Chris crooks the fingers her has in her, making her gasp.

"If you're good, I'll make you come again before we sleep," he says.

That gets her moving, rolling off of him. She sways a bit when she stands, but doesn't fall. He snorts and she casually flips him off before walking naked into his en suite, his come trickling down her leg. Chris follows her, not bothering with clothes either. She brushes her teeth quickly and he's tempted to tell her floss, just to be an ass, but he doesn't. She turns around when she's done, looking at him expectantly. 

Stiles eeps when Chris lifts her, hands wrapped around her thighs and sets her on the bathroom counter. Before she can ask what he's doing, he's on his knees, burying his face between her thighs. Stiles groans, wrapping her fingers in his hair as he licks into her, chasing the taste of them. He's not exactly a fan of the taste of his own release, but he doesn't hate it either, especially not when it's mixed with the taste of her. 

"Fuck," Stiles groans, fingers tightening in his hair.

Usually, he'd draw it out until her thighs are red from beard burn, make her beg and plead, but they're both tired, so he focuses on her clit immediately. He wraps his lips around that little ball of nerves and sucks, enjoying the shriek she releases. He alternates between flicking his tongue over her clit and sucking it into his mouth, keeping up a rhythm sure to get her off quickly. He slips two fingers inside her hot pussy, pressing up against her g-spot relentlessly.

"Gonna come, Chris, I'm gonna come," she says, thighs shaking next to his head.

Chris just hums against her flesh, flicking over her clit quicker. Her hands twist painfully in his hair when she comes on his tongue, but he doesn't mind, licking her through her orgasm until it's too much and she's pushing him away. 

Stiles is slumped against the wall, her thighs still spread, catching her breath when Chris stands. He wets a wash cloth and wipes gently between her legs, cleaning the cum and slick from her skin. Stiles just hums under his hands, eyes closed.

Stiles stays on the counter until Chris has brushed his teeth and taken the wet cloth to himself, wiping the evidence of their releases off of himself. Stiles hops down when he's done and follows him back to his room, completely at ease with her nudity. It'd taken a bit for him to get her there, to assure her that he loves her body and there's no need to be self-conscious around him, but now she will happily walk around without clothes, especially knowing what it does to him.

Chris takes a few minutes to walk the house, to make sure all the doors are locked and windows shut, to set the alarm system and put the mountain ash in place. Stiles immediately cuddles up to his side when he slides into bed, always happy to be in his arms. Chris curls his arm around her and kisses her forehead before turning off the light.

The pack isn't happy about it, but Chris doesn't expect them to be. After everything that's happened, their ranks are thin. Derek is gone, Kira's gone, Allison is _gone_. Scott has Liam, Stiles, Lydia, and Malia. And sometimes Peter. Chris and Stiles had been fucking for a while before anyone noticed. They're usually careful, sure to shower the scents of each other off before seeing anyone else, but an emergency had come up while Chris had been buried in Stiles and they hadn't had a chance to shower. Liam's nose had scrunched up as soon as they'd walked in. Maybe they could have written off showing up together, claiming that he'd just picked her up on the way, but they can't explain away the scent.

"What's that smell?" Liam had asked

Lydia had shrugged, not having the sense the rest do, but Malia, Scott, and Peter had all immediately understood. Peter had looked thoughtful, if a little amused, Malia had just shrugged, but Scott looked completely disgusted.

"Stiles!" Scott had said, scandalized. "What - he - you - "

"What?" Stiles had asked. 

"What our dear alpha is trying to say is we can smell Christopher between your legs," Peter had said, smirking.

Liam's jaw had dropped, Lydia's face had wrinkled in disgust (which frankly, Chris had thought was a bit hypocritical since he'd been on the receiving end of her flirtations multiple times), and Scott had looked vaguely sick to his stomach. Malia just hummed. Stiles, bright red by this point, just raised her chin defiantly. 

"That's...that's so gross!" Scott had said. "He could be your dad!"

"Well, he's not," Stiles had said with a shrug.

"It's wrong!" Scott had said. He'd rounded on the others for help, but Liam looked away, not wanting to get in the middle of a Scott and Stiles fight. 

"I wouldn't have taken you as one to take advantage of someone your daughter's age," Lydia had said scathingly. Chris hadn't winced, though it'd been hard.

"If you must know," Stiles had said through gritted teeth, "I'm the one that crawled into his bed."

"Still," Lydia had said. 

"What's the big deal?" Malia had asked. Scott, Liam, and Lydia looked at her incredulously. "What? He's strong, a proven fighter, and knowledgeable. Any cubs they'd have would be strong."

Stiles had choked on nothing and Chris absently patted her on the back, not missing how all eyes followed the movement.

"That's not...we're not..."

"Stiles this is...this is seriously twisted, even for you," Scot had said.

Stiles' eyes had narrowed dangerously.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" she'd asked.

"As much as I would love to watch you verbally eviscerate Scott, and believe me, nothing would make my day better than that," Peter assured her, before speaking to the room at large. "Stiles and Christopher are both consenting adults and we should probably get to the actual problem at hand. We have a water demon loose in the preserve."

Stiles had shot Peter a grateful look. Scott still had looked angry but had started the meeting, still glaring at Stiles and Chris once in a while. At the end of the meeting, Stiles had hung back to talk to Scott once everyone had left. Chris waited next to the loft door for her, giving them some semblance of privacy. Peter joined him, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Scott and Stiles with a look of mild amusement. 

"You're enjoying this way too much," Chris had said. Peter had smirked.

"Maybe," Peter had said with a careless shrug. "I didn't know you had it in you, Christopher. Though I am a bit disappointed I didn't get there first."

"She's not - " Chris had said, then bit down his words, not willing to give in to Peter's goading. 

Peter'd just winked before turning back to the argument between Scott and Stiles. Their words had gotten louder and sharper, meant to hurt. Chris had just been considering intervening when Scott said it.

"I'll tell your dad!" Scott had said. 

Stiles had stilled, her eyes narrowing, and Chris could tell immediately he'd gone too far. Peter had sat up a little straighter next to Chris.

"Scott Andrew McCall," Stiles had said, her voice low and dangerous. Chris had never heard her sound like that. Scott had flinched back. "You absolutely will not."

"I mean it," Scott had said, though he didn't sound certain at all. 

Peter had tutted and muttered something that sounded a lot like, "Stupid," under his breath.

"You're going to stop and think about everything I have done for you, and not just since your furry ass was turned. You're going to think about how I stood up for you, I covered for you, put my life on the line for you," Stiles had said. Chris hadn't understood how Scott hadn't shrunk back at the vitriol in her voice. "And if that's not enough to convince you not to do something as monumentally stupid as tattling, think of what exactly I do to people that fuck me over."

Scott had been quiet for a few moments, looking at Stiles like he didn't understand her at all. It had taken him a minute to swallow his pride, but he'd nodded slightly. 

"I still don't like it," Scott had said.

"You don't have to," Stiles had snapped. She'd turned and stalked away from Scott, grabbing Chris by the wrist and tugging him with her. Peter had winked at them on their way out the door.

Chris had taken Stiles hard that night, leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on her hips, biting marks onto the skin of her breasts. She'd wrapped her legs tightly around him, letting out guttural moans and clawing at his back. When he'd wrung her out, when she was breathless and sweaty beneath him, he'd traced a finger down her cheek, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, far too soft for how he'd fucked her.

"If this is going to be a problem with Scott - " he started, but Stiles cut him off.

"It's not. Leave Scott to me," Stiles had said. 

Chris has lost everything. His wife, his daughter, his father and sister. Even though the latter weren't good people, they were still his family and he is still alone. All he has is Stiles, and he can't lose her, too.

He knows she'll tire of him eventually, and why shouldn't she? He doesn't know why she's bothering with him in the first place when she can have someone her own age, someone less damaged, with a long life before them. When he asks her this, she laughs a bit hollowly and says, "I'm just as damaged as you are. What would I do with a bright and shiny boy my own age?" Well, he hadn't had an answer for that. Until she decides she's through with him, he'll give her everything.

The pack still side eyes them at pack meetings. Everyone but Peter and Malia look at them with disgust, but it isn't mentioned again. Stiles doesn't care at all. When they annoy her, she even goes so far as to have Chris fuck her right before a pack meeting to make sure they can all smell him on her. He really shouldn't, he should be the responsible one here, but he can't deny the twinge of pleasure he gets watching McCall and Liam scrunch up their noses when they smell her. Maybe he's been spending too much time with wolves, because it makes something possessive in him sing.

There are times when he doesn't see her for a week or more at a time. There are supernatural things going on, or school (god, she's in _high school_ ), or she's spending time with her dad. That's fine, he's an adult and doesn't need to be with her all the time. He does spend a lot of time with his hand between his legs, jacking himself off to the memories of her on her knees before him, of her tight little cunt, of coming deep in her ass.

There are times, like now, when her dad will be working for days at a time, when he won't notice his daughter hasn't been home. There's nothing new on the supernatural front, nothing attacking them, and it's summer so she's finally out of school. She comes over after her dad goes to work, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Chris raises his eyebrow when he answers the door. Stiles just shrugs, trying for bravado, but he can see the question there, wondering if he'll turn her away, if he won't want her around for that long.

Chris steps aside, lets her in. Her shoulders sag in relief. 

She drops her bag as soon as the door is closed behind her, then she's on him, her lips on his neck, her hands tugging at his clothes. Chris lets her pull his shirt over his head, lets her run hands over his torso and undo his belt. Then she's on her knees in front of him, pulling him out his jeans. He's already hard for her; it's been a week since he's seen her, and he's craving this just as much as she is.

It should be absurd, they're in the middle of his kitchen in broad daylight, but it's not. She licks up his cock before taking him in her mouth, humming contentedly. Chris wraps a hand in her hair, glad she's let it grow long enough that he can do this. Stiles takes him down her throat, far enough that her nose bumps his pelvis, making Chris hiss. She hadn't been able to do this when they'd started, but he'd taught her slowly how to open her throat, how to train away that pesky gag reflex.

Stiles sucks and licks at him with her talented mouth, swirling her tongue around his head the way that makes him wild. She's good at this, good with her mouth, moving her hand at the base of his cock just right. He knows he won't last long, not after going without her for a week, and she seems determined to make him come down her throat. Normally, he's more than happy to do that, loving the way her throat flutters around him as she swallows him down, but he's been craving her pussy. Stiles whines when he pulls her off him, looking up at him petulantly, like he's denying her something. 

"I was using that," she says, voice rough.

Chris pulls her up and spins her around, bending her over the kitchen table. She gasps as he tugs down her jeans, but he knows her sounds, knows that it's not in distress. She tilts her hips up, showing off her cunt, already wet from just having him in her mouth. Chris runs his fingers over her slit, dipping two inside to test how open she is. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he's dying to bury himself inside her.

"Come on," she says, pressing into his touch. "We can do nice and gentle later, just fuck me!"

Well, it's not like he's going to say no to that. He fucks into her quickly, growling like one of the wolves he spends way too much time with at how tight she is. This is going to be over embarrassingly fast, but he has a feeling the same is true for her. Her warm cunt clings to him as he thrusts into her and she makes deliciously needy noises, her hands scrabbling at the wood table. His orgasm is quickly approaching and she hasn't come yet, which is just unacceptable to him. He takes one large hand off her hips and reaches between her legs, rubbing softly over her hard little clit. Stiles bucks back into him with a gasp, tightening around him.

"That's it," Chris murmurs in her ear, voice rough. "You're going to come on my cock like the good little slut you are."

Stiles groans, head handing down.

"Just yours," she says. "Just your slut."

They've never talked about it, not really, but Chris isn't fucking anyone else and he's pretty sure she isn't either. But hearing it like that, well, it does something to him.

"Good," he says, fucking into her even harder, the hand on her clit speeding up. "Good girl, so good for me."

Stiles shudders at the words, thighs clamping around his hand as she comes, cunt spasming around him. Her body goes limp, help up just by Chris' hands. It only takes a dozen more thrusts and he's following her, stilling as he comes. He feels bad that there might be bruises on Stiles' hips from where the edge of the table had been pressed against her, but he also knows she likes that.

It's the middle of the day and he does have work he needs to get done, but he lets her drag him upstairs to his room and into bed. She's tired, both from sex and her horrible sleep pattern, so he doesn't protest too much when she scoots back against him and drags his arm around her. 

Chris wakes her up a few hours later with his mouth between her thighs. She loves this, has given him blanket position to wake her up like this whenever he wants, but he doesn't indulge in it often. He does now because he has the time and now that the edge has been taken off earlier, he can focus on drawing her pleasure out.

Chris gently parts Stiles' thighs and traces the outer lips of her cunt, still a bit red and swollen from being fucked earlier. The flesh is warm under his hands and he spends a few minutes just running light touches over her, never making direct contact with her clit. Even without that, she still starts getting wet, a touch of slick coating her. Chris licks up her slit, the taste of her exploding across his taste buds. He's careful, wanting to coax the pleasure out her slowly. She starts making breathy little noises in her sleep, her legs twitching in Chris' grip.

Chris manages to get two fingers in her wet, clutching heat, before she wakes. She lets out a loud moan and threads her fingers through his hair. She undulates her hips, trying to get more of his tongue, but he presses a hand down on her stomach, stilling her. Stiles whines, but keeps still for him. Chris gives her clit a long lick in reward, making her keen. He nibbles at her labia, traces her opening with his tongue, circles widely around her clit, all things she loves but won't actually get her off. He'd feel bad about teasing her, but he likes getting her worked up, likes how wet it makes her and how desperate she gets. 

Chris has lost count of how long he's had his head between her legs, but that's more than fine with him. He's always loved doing this, going down on women. He loves the pleasure, loves knowing he caused it, and loves them giving up that bit of control to him. When Stiles' thighs start quivering, he knows she's close. Her pussy is drenched by now, thanks to his talented mouth and the three fingers he has buried in her. She started whispering his name, over and over again. He wonders if she knows she's doing it. 

Her body is tensing, tightening in preparation for her release, and he closes his lips around her hard little clit and sucks. Stiles shrieks out his name, back bowing as she comes. Chris keeps his mouth on her and his fingers inside her as she clenches around him, her cunt pulsing. When it's too much and she's getting close to being oversensitive, she tugs at his hair. Chris crawls up her, settling his larger body over hers. 

"Hey," she says, smiling. She leans up, kissing the taste of herself from his mouth and running her fingers through his beard. 

"Hey," he answers her.

Stiles rolls her hips, pressing against his erection.

"You should take your pants off," Stiles says. "And fuck me until I can't walk."

"Oh you think so?" Chris asks. He drags a hand down her body, stopping to twist harshly at one of her nipples before dipping lower, sliding two fingers into her soaked cunt. Stiles' breath hitches. "What if I just wanted to play with you for a bit?"

"You just did," Stiles whines. Chris brushes his thumb over her swollen, sensitive clit and she groans, gripping his arms.

"I did," Chris confirms. "But that doesn't mean I want to stop. I want to get one more out of you before I fuck that sweet little cunt of yours."

"I cant," Stiles says as his hands starts to move, fingers pressing into her g-spot and the heel of his hand grinding against her clit.

"You always say that," Chris says. "Yet you always manage to come again."

Stiles opens her mouth, but Chris silences whatever she's about to say with a kiss, the most effective way he's found to keep her quiet. It devolves quickly from a deep, searing kiss, to her gasping and panting against his lips, her body already close to coming again. When she does, it's with a whimper as she shudders. As many times as he's seen her come, he doesn't think he'll ever tire of it.

Chris has barely pulled his fingers out of her before her hands are on the button of his jeans, undoing them and tugging them down as far as she can. He stands, stripping quickly, proud of how her eyes rake over his body, before crawling back over her. They've tried many positions in many places, but his favorite is this, having her lithe body under him, so small in comparison. He loves caging her in, being able to watch every expression that crosses her face as he plays her body. It's one of her favorites, too, for the same reason. She'd once told him it makes her feel safe, having him over her. He doesn't think he's been referred at as safe in any way for years.

Their faces are inches apart when he takes his cock in hand and drags the tip lightly through her wet folds, brushing against her clit on each stroke. Stiles cants her hips up, urging him to get inside her, but he takes his time, notching the head of his dick at her entrance and pushing in slowly. She's dripping from her orgasms, her cunt more relaxed for him. He still presses in slowly to make sure he doesn't hurt her, even though sometimes she gets off on a little pain. They're both panting when his hips finally meet hers, her cunt fitting perfectly around him. Showing a shocking amount of restraint, she waits for him to move first, pulling back just enough to press back into her with a dirty little grind of his hips. 

Stiles moves her hips to meet his, but lets him set his slow, languorous pace. They rarely have sex like this, slow and sweet, because there just always seems to be something happening that they need rush off to do, whether is be a supernatural emergency or not. It will take a while for him to come like this, but he keeps fucking her slowly, leisurely, because they have nowhere to be, and he _can_. Her face is only inches from his, their noses brushing, trading occasional kisses. The expression on her face is open, raw, and he's not sure what his face looks like but he's sure it's similar. 

It's intimate, much too intimate for what they are (which is what? Fuck buddies? A midlife crisis and a daddy kink spiraling out of control?), but Chris can't look away. He brushes the hair out of her eyes, his large hand cradling her face for a moment before he leans down and kisses her softly. Stiles wraps a hand around the back of his neck, twisting her fingers in the hair at the base of his skull. 

Chris drags his free hand up her body, cupping her breast in his hand and flicking a thumb over her hard, pink nipple. Stiles gasps and tightens around him. Chris does it again, twisting then soothing with a soft brush of his thumb. He could be much rougher, and sometimes he is, pinching and twisting her hard little nipples until she's crying, nearly coming from that alone, but he's more than happy with his, playing with her body and earning soft sounds and breathy gasps. Stiles' eyes flutter shut when he squeezes her nipple again, her lips parting.

Chris loses himself in her, in her sounds, in the way she's wrapped around him, in the clutching heat of her surrounding his cock. There's pleasure building in him, slow-earned and heady. He gives Stiles' nipple one last twist before trailing his fingers down the skin of her torso, down between her legs. She's hot and swollen down there, having taken so much today, but her clit is still hard and slippery with her wetness. He circles it slowly, making her breath stutter and her cunt tighten around him. Stiles hitches a leg over his hip, letting him slide even deeper into her and they grind together, getting quicker now that they can feel themselves get closer to coming. 

"Please don't stop," Stiles begs, rolling her hips to match his. "Please, Chris..."

"I won't, I've got you," he says. 

"I'm close," she whimpers.

He knows, he can feel it in how she's trembling, how her hips are losing their rhythm. She tries to hide her face in his neck but he stops her.

"Let me see you," Chris says. 

Stiles comes before Chris does, gasping out her pleasure as her inner muscles flutter around his cock. Chris is close behind though, her rippling cunt milking his orgasm from him. He drops his forehead to hers, breathing harshly as his dick pulses inside her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, holding him to her, like he might go if she doesn't. She's not always vulnerable after sex; sometimes she just rolls out of bed, gives him a high five, and heads for the shower. But this isn't one of those times. This time, she's reluctant to even let him pull out of her. She doesn't want him to move away even though he doesn't want to rest all of his weight on her. He manages to coax her into letting him roll to his side, though she makes a mournful noise when his cock slides free of her. He draws her to him as soon as he settles, letting her rest her head on his chest, her arm wrapped around his middle. Their legs tangle together, his cum dripping out of her and smearing against his leg. He resigns himself to not getting any work done for the rest of the day, but he could think of worse things to happen, so he's not too concerned.

Stiles messes with his head, he can admit that. When there's a threat in town, and a new one does always come, he's not as focused as he should be. They're all gathered in the preserve, fighting off hunters who think that Argent's gone soft, that have decided the code isn't worth having. He's not at his best because he has one eye on her where she's a dozen feet away, her trusty baseball bat in hand (she'd confided in him that it's infused with wolfsbane and mountain ash, that there are so many runes on it that it's as magical as the Sorting Hat). 

Chris hears a sickening crack and takes his eyes off his opponent for a split second, just to make sure it was the sound of Stiles' bat connecting to her assailant's head, not of her being hurt, but it's a split second too long. He's lucky that the other man's aim is bad because the bullet just grazes Chris' arm, but it's enough to snap his focus back to what he's doing. Chris slams the butt of his gun into the other man's face, knocking him out cold, ignoring the burning pain in his arm.

When they're done, when the hunters are either dead or run off, Chris refuses to let Stiles take him to a hospital. 

"Dude," Stiles says. "You have a hole in your arm."

"It's a graze. I can take care of it at home," Chris says. "If anyone is going to the hospital, it's you."

"Me? Why me?" Stiles asks.

"I don't know, that cut on your head?" Chris says.

Stiles wipes at the bloody cut near her temple impatiently, which succeeds in doing absolutely nothing but smearing the blood. 

"I'm not going to a hospital," Stiles says flatly. He knows better than to push her to step foot in a hospital since the nogitsune. Scott tried to force her once and the fallout hadn't been pretty.

"Neither am I," he says.

"Fine," Stiles snaps. 

Chris does let her clean the wound, even though he could have done it faster himself. 

It happens again when there's an infestation of pixies, then again when a family of trolls comes through. Chris' focus is on Stiles, making sure Stiles is safe, though he isn't stupid enough to try to tell her to stay behind with Lydia, knowing exactly how well that will go. But then a coven of witches comes to town and Stiles is taken. Chris' compartmentalization is failing him, and all he can do is think the worst. He's full of panic, which is completely useless, but he can't keep it at bay. It's Peter who snaps him out of it with a none-too-gentle slap to the face.

"This isn't helping her at all," Peter growls out. "Get it together."

And it's Peter, _Peter_ of all people, being the voice of reason that helps get him together. Because Peter's right. The coven needs Stiles for something. They would have just killed her outright if that's what they'd wanted. In the end, they figure out it's a simple power ritual, but the key ingredient is a spark. They comb Beacon Hills along the telluric currents, which, according to Deaton, is where the ritual is most likely being held. In the end, it's Peter that comes out of the preserve with Stiles limp in his arms. Peter takes her to Deaton's and calls Chris, then the rest of the pack. Deaton assures them that she's all right, that she's just been slipped something to knock her out and will wake up soon. They keep her at the animal clinic though, just in case. When she finally opens her eyes, she takes in the room with sigh.

"Who found me?" she asks.

"Me," Peter says.

"High five, dude," Stiles says, weakly raising her hand. Peter raises an eyebrow but indulges her, high fiving her back. "You're won breakfast at Denny's, on me."

"How lucky for me," Peter says wryly. 

On the way out of the animal clinic, Stiles following Chris to his car, she stops in front of Peter, who's casually standing in the parking lot like he has nowhere else to be.

"The witches," Stiles asks him. "Are they...?"

Peter flicks out his claws, smiling the smile that makes Chris want to reach for his gun.

"Gone," he says simply. 

"That's not going to make Scott happy," Stiles says.

"Oh no, how will I ever get over that?" Peter asks mockingly. 

Stiles snorts.

"Thanks," she says. "For, you know."

"You're welcome. Try not to get kidnapped anymore. It sent Christopher into a tizzy," Peter says.

Now Chris is really itching to reach for his gun. Stiles looks at him with a raised eyebrow, but he says nothing, just opens the car door for her.

Stiles wants to go home, but the sheriff is working and no one wants her to be alone. Chris takes her back to his house, though he can tell Scott had wanted to throw a fit about it. Stiles takes a long, hot shower when they get there, and Chris makes her eat a protein bar after that. She rolls her eyes but does what he asks.

They fuck roughly that night, Chris fighting not to leave bruises on her hips and bite marks on her neck because he has no right. No matter what they're doing, she isn't _his_. No matter how scared he was when she was missing, no matter the relief when she was back safe and in his bed, that's not what they are to each other. No matter how much he hates the marks on her wrists from when she'd been tied up, it's not his place to cover them. She isn't his, not like that.

Chris is distant for a week after that, telling her he's busy when she texts him, or avoiding her calls altogether. She shows up on his doorstep anyway, incessantly ringing the doorbell. He lasts for fifteen minutes before he can't stand it any longer. Plus, to be honest, he knows she'll just break in if she doesn't get her way, and he'd rather her not break any of his windows. 

When he opens the door, Stiles is standing there, hands on her hips, looking equal parts angry and exasperated. 

"Is there a reason you've been avoiding me?" she asks.

"I've been busy," Chris says curtly.

"Really," Stiles says. "It has nothing to do with the fact that you might have been a little worried when I was slightly kidnapped?" Chris' face remains neutral, making Stiles roll her eyes so hard that it must hurt. "God, you're even more emotionally constipated than Derek."

Chris says nothing and Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand over her face in frustration.

"All right, look. I have two weeks of summer left before I have to head to Berkeley. Are you going to waste it giving me the cold shoulder, or are you going to fuck me until I can't sit right?" she asks.

Chris looks at her for a moment, at the set of her jaw, at her hands on her hips. He looks at the insecurity in her eyes, her wondering if she's done something to fuck this up. He really should tell her to leave, for all of the obvious reasons that he's been saying from the start. He's too old, too dangerous, too broken. Because it's a bad idea. Because this thing between them isn't romance, it's two fucked up people crashing together in a way that can't possibly end well.

Wordlessly, he steps aside, letting Stiles into his house.

"Thank you," Stiles says, walking past him. "And if you ever ignore me again, I'm keying your car."

"Little shit," Chris says.

Chris had thought it would end when she went off to college. He'd assumed she would break from him then and find someone else. He's wrong. She texts him every day, calls him almost as much. At first it's teasing, raunchy texts with what she wants him to do to her, how much she misses his cock, and the occasional picture of her tits, her cunt stretched around a toy. Then it turns into 2:00 a.m. texts when she can't sleep and knows he can't either. It's phone calls about homework she's struggling to focus on, about the obnoxious boy in her class that won't stop hitting on her. Chris offers to make that problem go away and she laughs fondly, tells him not worry, she can do that on her own. He knows she can, but it doesn't make his desire any less.

He misses her, he finds. More than he thought he would. He briefly considers driving the three hours to visit her, but he thinks that too much for what they are, or rather, what they aren't. He still sees her on breaks or when she comes down for a long weekend. A lot of that time is spent with her dad or with the pack, but she always makes time to see him, and he always makes sure she comes multiple times with his name on her tongue. 

She calls him one night from her dorm room, which isn't unusual in itself, but the first noise she makes once he answers is a breathy sigh and oh, he knows that sound. If he listens carefully, he can hear wet noises and the soft hum of a vibrator. 

"What exactly are you doing, sweetheart?" Chris asks.

"Playing with the toy you bought me," Stiles says. 

Stiles' cheap vibrator had finally given up on her and Chris had surprised her with a new, sturdier toy, one that was rechargeable and waterproof. 

"How are you liking it?" he asks. He's in his room, leaning up against his headboard, his cock half hard already.

Stiles lets out a breathy laugh, followed by a quiet moan.

"It's good, it's so good," Stiles says. "It's not as good as having your mouth on me, but nothing really is."

"Soon," Chris promises. "You just have a few weeks left until break."

"Good," Stiles says. "Nothing fills me up quite like you do."

"Soon," Chris says again. "I'll have you in my bed soon. I'll spend hours between your thighs, licking your sweet little cunt until you're coming all over me."

Chris knows he isn't very good at this, at vocalizing what he wants, but Stiles moans, the slick sounds speeding up. Chris grasps his cock in his hard, stroking himself to the sounds of her, to the image of her spread out on her bed, legs splayed open with the little vibrator pressed to her hard clit. 

"Want that," she moans. "Wanna ride you. I hate being so empty."

"Finger yourself for me," Chris says. "Slide two fingers into your greedy little cunt."

Stiles gasps and Chris can picture it, can picture her with two fingers buried inside her.

"Feels good," Stiles says, though her breath is shallow. 

"Keep that toy on your clit," Chris says and Stiles' breath catches, like it always does when he orders her to do something. "Is your roommate home?"

"No," Stiles says. "She's out."

"Good. Then I want to hear you, no holding back. Understand?"

Stiles whimpers. "Yeah," she says. "God, I'm close."

Chris speeds his hand up on his cock, squeezing tightly, imagining it's her hand on him, her cunt tight around him.

"Come on, let me hear you come," Chris says.

Chris spills over his hand right before Stiles cries out in pleasure, little gasps escaping her. The humming of the vibrator stops and then there's nothing but her harsh breathing. They're quiet for a bit, both catching their breath and content with the easy silence. Then Stiles laughs quietly.

"God, I'm glad Annie's out tonight," she says.

"So am I," Chris says. "It's late, you should get some sleep. You have class tomorrow morning."

"I'll text you tomorrow," she says.

"All right," Chris says. 

"I miss you," she says quietly.

"I miss you, too," Chris admits. He feels like he shouldn't, but he says it anyway. He's fucked no matter what.

Then, over spring break, the sheriff dies, killed by a wendigo, and Chris is afraid she'll shatter. Chris shows up too late, too late to save another one, but just in time to see Stiles huddled over her father's body, a body half ravaged and missing chunks of flesh. The pack is standing in a semi circle around her, looks of horror and guilt on their faces. Chris lets her hug her father's body, lets her scream. He stops Scott when the boy tries to pull her away, knowing she needs to get this out. 

When she's done, when her violent sobs have left her and she's just staring with hollow, unseeing eyes, Chris kneels at her side, drawing her into his arms. She goes willingly, clinging to him like if she doesn't, he'll disappear, too. Her clothes as wet with the sheriff's blood, transferring red to his shirt, but he doesn't care. Chris meets Peter's eyes and the other man nods, telling Chris without a word that he'll take care of the sheriff's body, of making sure that when it's found, it will look like an animal attack. Chris doesn't trust Peter with much, but he knows this is something the man knows how to do, something he will do, if for no other reason than to make sure Stiles doesn't have to. Chris doesn't pretend to understand the strange friendship that's grown between Peter and Stiles, but he knows it's there and he isn't above using it.

Stiles is quiet on the drive back to Chris' house. Her eyes are blank as she stares out the window at the passing trees, her head resting against the glass. Chris reaches out, placing a hand on her thigh. Stiles doesn't startle like he'd thought she would, she doesn't move at all. 

It's late, so even if Chris' neighbors were to look on their windows when he pulls up in front of his house, they wouldn't be able to see the dark blood covering Stiles and his clothes. He still ushers her inside quickly, just in case. She doesn't move any farther than the foyer while he locks the door behind them, only moving as far as he'd moved her. Chris takes her hand and walks her to the bathroom. 

They need to get rid of the bloody clothes, so he strips her carefully, making sure the bloodied clothes don't drip onto the floor. Even her bra and panties have been soaked with red, so he takes those, too. He takes them to the kitchen where he gets out a large garbage bag and stuffs the clothes into it before taking off his bloody shirt and dropping it in, too. He'll burn them when he has a chance later.

When he walks back into the bathroom, she's standing right where he'd left her, completely naked, staring at herself in the mirror. There's dirt on her arms and hands, blood on her hands, and dried tear tracks on her face. Chris steps behind her and leans over to turn on the shower, thankful that the tankless hot water heater makes the spray immediately warm. 

"Come on," Chris says quietly, steering her to the shower. 

Stiles climbs in obediently and stands under the spray, eyes closer as the hot water sluices down her body. Chris quickly undresses before sliding into the shower behind her. There's nothing remotely sexual about it, despite the fact that he has her naked and pressed against him. He runs the washcloth under the tap before gently cleaning the dirt from her body, the blood from her hands. She's looking down at how the water runs a dirty brown copper color. 

Stiles' skin is pink from the hot water and Chris' gentle scrubbing, but it isn't covered in blood and grime anymore and that's what the goal had been. Chris turns her so she's facing him and massages shampoo into her hair. Stiles stares at his collarbones while he rinses her hair, conditions it, rinses again. 

Finally, he tilts her head up until she meets his eyes. They're still disturbingly blank, but she holds eye contact. Chris softly wipes the dried tear tracks from her cheeks. She blinks at him a few times before leaning forward, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around him. They stay like that for a long time, until the mirror is fogged up and their skin has turned pruny.

Chris towels her off with the soft, blue towel she always uses, then dries himself before taking her by the hand and leading her into his room. She pulls on the t-shirt he hands her, one of his that hangs to her upper thighs. The sight of her in it usually makes something low in his belly tighten, but tonight she just looks small and fragile. 

"Come here," he murmurs, and she does. It's unnerving to have her this still and quiet, to have her do what he says without question. She crawls into bed when he tells her to and doesn't move when he pulls the blanket up and over her. Chris slides in after her, hesitating a moment before gathering her close to his chest. Stiles sighs and settles against him, draping her arm over his waist. They're quiet for a long time, neither of them moving. Until Stiles' hand slides lower, toying with the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

"Stiles," Chris says in warning.

Stiles moves until she's straddling him, hands braced on his chest, nothing between them but the thin fabric of his underwear. Chris tries to will himself not to get hard, but by this point, it's what his body is conditioned to do when she's astride him. Chris grabs her wrists to stop her from running her hands farther up his chest. 

"Come on," Stiles says, voice hoarse from screaming herself raw earlier. She grinds down against his half-hard cock. 

"You don't want this," Chris says.

"Pretty sure I do," Stiles says. She shifts her hips, pressing against his hardening cock and says, "Pretty sure you do, too."

Stiles leans down and kisses him, but it's a little too harsh, has a little more bite than usual.

"This isn't healthy," Chris says against her lips.

Stiles laughs somewhat hysterically.

"What about either of us strikes you as healthy?" she asks. "Please, Chris, I need to feel something, please."

This is a bad idea, and he knows it because after Allison's funeral, he'd gone to the seediest bar in Beacon Hills and had fucked some nameless woman over the back of his car before driving home and drinking until he passed out. He knows it's not going to help and he tells her this, he tells her why, but she just shakes her head and says that she doesn't care. 

"I do," Chris says firmly. "And I'm not going to let you do something you regret."

"Regret? You wanna talk regrets? Okay, regrets, I regret going off to college and thinking my dad could possibly be safe here. I regret the damn ice bath that opened the door for the damn nogitsune to murder half the damn town." Chris jerks at the mention of the nogitsune, at the mention of the thing that killed Allison, but Stiles presses on. "I regret dragging Scott out to the woods to look for a dead body and starting this whole mess. And I regret - I regret not letting my mom just kill me like she wanted to. I wouldn't have been possessed and my dad would still be alive. So yeah, Chris, I have a lot of things I already regret."

Chris doesn't point out that the shitstorm that had hit Beacon Hills would have happened with or without her. Even if Peter had bitten someone else, even if Stiles and Scott had nothing to do with it, her dad was still the sheriff and a smart man, he would have been embroiled in it no matter what. 

"Stiles," Chris says quietly. 

"Don't look at me like that," Stiles says.

"Like what?" Chris asks. He knows she doesn't want to see the pity and he tries to hide it, tries to put on a blank face perfected through years of hunter training, but it's hard because he knows exactly what she's feeling and he can't just pretend it doesn't hurt him to know she's hurting.

"Like that!" Stiles says. She jerks her wrists in his grasp, maybe trying to push herself away from him, maybe to hit him, Chris doesn't know, but he holds her steady. "Stop looking at me like that!"

Chris lets Stiles thrash, lets her beat her fists against his chest, lets her shriek all her rage and grief and is thankful for his house's thick walls. He knows it hurts her, but he'd rather have her feel it, feel the pain and agony that's ripping through her rather than be the empty, still girl she was earlier. It'd just prolong the pain, make it worse when it finally did hit her. 

When she has nothing left, when her voice is gone from screaming and her shrieks have given way to soft, hiccuping sobs, he lets go of her wrists. She collapses forward onto his chest, face buried in her hands and Chris just aches for her. He wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly, letting her know he isn't going anywhere, until she's too exhausted to stay awake. 

Chris stays awake for a long time after Stiles finally falls asleep. He doesn't know what to do with her, for her. He barely keeps himself functioning with a mix of too much work and too much bourbon. He's not looking forward to tomorrow when her father will be found and she'll get the call from the station to come down and identify the body. There will be cops and lawyers and insurance to deal with. She'll have to box up his things, figure out what to do with the house. She's eighteen, nearly nineteen, entirely too young to have that on her shoulders. Too young to be an orphan. Chris falls asleep hours after she does, her tears dried on his chest.

Chris is right. Stiles gets the call that morning around 8:00. He drives her to the station but doesn't go in with her. She says she doesn't want them questioning why she's with him and having to answer more awkward questions. He tells her he doesn't mind, but she still insists on doing it alone. He waits outside the station. Scott texts him asking about Stiles, saying she isn't answering her phone. Chris ignores it until Scott threatens to track them down. Chris texts back _She's not answering her phone because she's busy and she doesn't want to talk to you._ Scott keeps texting him, asking why, asking if she's okay. Chris ignores them all.

When Stiles is finally done, it's well into the afternoon. That hollow, empty look is back. Chris can see the deputies watching her from the windows, sad, worried, and pitying. 

"Let's go," Stiles mutters.

Stiles only eats because Chris tells her to and sets food in front of her. He sits across from her at his kitchen table and watches her while she eats. Stiles mechanically recites what happened at the precinct, how her dad's second in command sat her down and told her what happened. How some hikers found him just off the path. She comments dully that Peter did a good job, they never suspected anything other than an animal attack. When she's done, Chris tells her about Scott's texts.

"I know," she says. "He's been blowing my phone up since last night. I just started deleting them without opening them."

"Okay," Chris says.

"Just okay?" she asks. "You're not gonna try to make me talk to him?"

"Do you want to talk to him?" Chris asks.

"No."

"Then no," Chris says. 

Stiles studies him for a long time before shrugging and eating the last bite of her tuna sandwich.

Chris has always hated funerals and the sheriff's is no different. Most of the sheriff's department is there. Most of the _town_ is there. They have to listen to the minister drone on (was the sheriff even religious? Stiles isn't.) about how death is the beginning of a new life, how we shouldn't be sad, but celebrate. Chris hated the words at his family's funerals and he hates them now. Stiles had declined to speak when asked, so Parrish does instead. Stiles doesn't seem to hear any of it. 

The pack is there, all squished in the back row. When the funeral is finished, they stand, led by Scott, and try to make their way over to her. Stiles uses the crowd to her advantage, weaving through the sea of bodies and out the chapel door. Chris waits behind, running interception.

"We need to talk to her," Scott says when he gets to Chris.

"She doesn't want to talk," Chris says.

"But she needs to," Scott says.

"Scott has all the delicacy of a rampaging rhinoceros and can't seem to comprehend that Stiles might not want to speak with him," Peter drawls. 

Scott turns and growls lowly at Peter, who just raises an eyebrow, completely unconcerned. 

"She's my best friend," Scott says softly.

"And her father is dead," Chris says, making Scott wince. "This isn't about you."

No one else seems like they're going to say anything, so Chris walks away, leaving them all to stare miserably at the sheriff's casket. Stiles is waiting in Chris' car and breathes out a sigh of relief when she realizes he isn't being followed by the pack. Chris takes her back to his house and they eat day-old Chinese food on his couch, her feet in his lap.

Stiles doesn't want to go back to college. Chris doesn't make her, though he probably should. She stays with him, despite Melissa and Scott offering her a place. He knows she thinks she's broken, that she doesn't want to tarnish them (well, Melissa more than Scott). Chris tells her she's wrong, but he doesn't make her leave. Instead, he trains her. He makes her more dangerous, harder to kill. He forces out comparisons of her to Allison. 

It's the training that helps break her from the blank stillness she's adopted since the sheriff's death. This is something she can focus on, can throw herself into. She already knows the basics, having taken many self defense classes, but Chris takes it a step further. He shows her how to inflict pain, how to kill. He shows her how to be lethal and stronger, not just to humans, but to werewolves and all sorts of supernatural creatures. He'd rather her take out her rage and grief in the training room with him rather than let it fester, leading to questionable decisions, or end up with her hurting herself.

The first time they have sex since Chris turned Stiles down the night of the sheriff's death is on the training room floor. They've been at it for hours, him honing her hand-to-hand skills. She's getting tighter, more controlled. She'll last longer against him before he gets the upper hand and shoves her away, saying, "Again."

They're both tiring, moving slower and sloppier. Chris probably should have ended it an hour ago, but she's better like this, more like her old self, and it's hard for him to take that away from her. She manages to sweep his legs out from under him, sending him to the ground with her on top of him, knees tight around his waist and her wooden training knife against his throat. He taps her thigh, giving in. She removes the wooden knife, but doesn't move from where she's straddling him. 

"Stiles?" he asks.

Stiles smiles slightly, one of the first he's really seen from her in a while, and leaning down slowly, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. She looks hesitant, like she's not sure if he's going to turn her away again. Chris wraps a hand in her hair and pulls her down for another kiss, this one desperate and needy. They're both covered in sweat but neither mind, grinding against each other with bitten off gasps and loud moans.

They don't undress, Stiles just pushes the fabric of her shorts and panties to the side, Chris pulls his dick out of his pants, and she lowers herself down onto him. It's tight, they haven't bothered with much foreplay beyond him slipping two fingers inside of her to test how wet she is, but she's so slick and it only takes a moment for her to adjust to the intrusion. She rides him hard and fast, fueled by the leftover adrenaline and pent up sexual energy.

It doesn't like last long, not when they're both keyed up like this. He makes sure she comes first, his fingers deftly circling her hard clit. Only when she's gotten off, pussy clenching around him, does he let himself fuck up into her with abandon, chasing his own release. Stiles sighs contentedly and stands, righting her shorts and panties, before reaching down. He takes her hand and lets her help pull him to his feet. 

"Good game," she says, raising her hand for a high five. 

It's so like the old her, pre-grief, that he has to smile and give her her damn high five. He slaps her ass when she walks by and the surprised laugh it earns him makes him smile, too.

Chris gets a call from an old hunting buddy who has intel that an omega that had ravaged a family outside of a nearby town is heading to Beacon Hills, but he's too neck-deep in his own hunt to take care of it. Chris thanks him for the heads up and waits for Stiles to get back to tell her (she's taken to going on long runs through Beacon Hills, says it helps her get her mind right).

"Okay," she says. She's sweaty, her face flushed from her run and hair damp. She takes a long swig from the water bottle he hands her. "When do we go?"

Stiles takes a quick shower before dressing in blank pants and a black long sleeved shirt. Chris watches her strap a gun to her hip, knives to her wrists, and one of his long baton tasers to her thigh. It's so heartbreakingly similar to how Allison had geared up that it stops his breath for a second. Stiles notices, because Stiles notices everything, and her eyes soften in apology. He doesn't blame her, he knows it's not her fault, but the loss still is a gaping hole inside of him. 

They don't call the pack as they head into the preserve, setting up their traps to lure the omega to them. They're at the very edge of the preserve, far from where the pack patrols, quietly waiting out the omega werewolf. Stiles is jittery, tapping her fingers against her thighs and Chris really should tell her to stop, but it's so good to see her actually moving instead of being still and silent that he can't bring himself to. He puts a stop to it when she starts clicking her tongue, though.

They only end up waiting two hours before they hear the loud rustling of something running their way, something that either doesn't care or doesn't have the capacity to care that it's being heard. The omega bursts through the trees and see Chris first, just as planned. He launches himself at Chris, just like planned, but before he can make contact, Stiles is closing the mountain ash circle, locking the snarling werewolf in. 

"Good speed with the mountain ash," Chris says. He's not lying, she has a predisposition for using it well, better than plenty of trained hunters he's met. 

"Thanks," Stiles says.

The omega snarls at them, fighting futilely against the ring of mountain ash surrounding him. He has long, matted hair and dirty, pale skin. His eyes are supernaturally blue and wild, like there's nothing intelligent staring out of them. He doesn't answer, or seem to even comprehend any of the questions Chris asks. 

"He's completely feral," Chris says says with a sigh. "He's been without a pack too long."

"And I'm guessing there isn't a feral werewolf rehab program anywhere," Stiles says dryly.

"There's nothing that can be done when they reach this stage," Chris says. "It's not like Peter. He'd still had his intelligence, his mind was just warped by the trauma. There's nothing left here. If we tried to put him near a pack, he'd just rip into them until he killed as many as he could."

"Okay," Stiles says, nodding. She raises her gun, aiming it at the feral omega's head.

"Stiles," Chris says, putting a hand on her outstretched arm. She cocks her head at him in question. "I can do it, you don't have to."

"I've killed before," she reminds him.

"This is different. This isn't possession or in self defense," Chris says. "This is an execution, and it's something you're going to have to live with for the rest of your life."

"We don't have a choice, do we?" she says. "What, we let him go? Let him go rip into another family? I'm fine taking care of this if it keeps another kid from not having her parents anymore. And I have a rule; never ask someone else to do something that I'm not willing to do myself."

Chris looks at her for a while, but he doesn't see the rage he'd seen in Allison after Victoria's death. He doesn't see the out of control need to hunt, to hurt. He sees Stiles' practicality, her pragmatism. The need to keep someone else from hurting.

"Okay," Chris says, taking his hand off her arm.

Stiles adjusts her aim, stares into the angry, snarling face of the omega who doesn't even comprehend the gun pointed at him. With a deep breath, she squeezes the trigger. The omega drops, hit right between the eyes with a wolfsbane bullet. He's dead before he hits the ground. 

Chris tries to tell Stiles that she doesn't need to help dig the grave, that she'd done enough, but she insists on 'pulling her own weight' and helps. It's depressing, burying an unknown body in an unmarked grave in the middle of the woods, but what Stiles had said is true. There really is no other choice. It takes them hours between burying the omega and taking apart the traps they'd set before they're back at Chris' house.

"I call dibs on first shower," Stiles says as soon as they walk inside.

"You know I have two bathrooms," Chris says.

"Yeah, but the water pressure in the downstairs bathroom sucks," Stiles says. 

Chris snorts. It's not like it matters much, he's going to be joining her in the shower in a few minutes anyways.

Stiles is better after that. She's still not good, exactly, because how can you be when the person that's grounded you to earth for so long is just gone? But she's better. She even takes a few online classes because she's getting bored and just wants to know stuff. She still avoids the pack like the plague.

Chris wants to leave Beacon Hills. He knows too much loss in this town, but he doesn't want to leave her here alone. He doesn't push her, doesn't tell her he wants to leave. He lets her come to her own conclusion.

"Take me away," she says one night, cheek resting on his chest. The sheets are damp with sweat and other things, her cunt soft and open from him. "I don't want to be here anymore."

"Are you sure?" Chris asks, running his hand up and down her arm. "You have your friends here. Your pack."

"I don't," she says. "They let my dad die. They didn't listen to me and he's dead because of that."

It's true. Stiles had warned them about how dangerous the wendigo was, but Scott insisted it could be reasoned with, that there was a man in there that didn't know what he was doing. Stiles, still on the road back from college, had told Scott to call Chris, that this is his area of expertise, that he knows what he's doing, but Scott hadn't, probably because he knew Chris would agree with Stiles. Scott hadn't listened, he'd done what he thought was right, and the sheriff is dead. As far as Chris knows, Peter is the only one who'd fought Scott, vehemently in fact, against his plan, which is probably the only reason Stiles is still talking to him when she's cut out everyone else from the pack. 

"You don't have to," Stiles says, misinterpreting his silence. "I get it. I'll go alone."

"No," Chris says, tightening his arm around her. "I'll take you."

"You don't have an obligation to me," Stiles says. "You don't have to stay around me just because you think I'm not stable enough without you. Just another broken fucking kid, a useless charity case."

"That's not it, and you know it," Chris says sharply.

Stiles sags against him, hiding her face in his chest.

"Yeah, I know," she says softly. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Chris says, and it is. He's seen worse reactions to grief. He's _had_ worse reactions. 

She's quiet for a few minutes, absentmindedly tracing patterns over the hair on his chest. Chris presses a kiss to her temple, waiting for her to speak.

"When?" Stiles finally asks.

"Soon," Chris says.

Stiles relaxes at that.

"Good."

They only tell Peter that they're leaving, letting him know that he can tell Scott when they've been gone for a few days. Or he can wait to see if Scott notices, they leave it up to him to lord the knowledge over the pack however he wants as long as they get out of town without being bothered. Peter's face does something complicated when they tell him they're leaving, before wishing them safe travels. Stiles teases him about missing them, but Peter just scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

Chris puts most of his belongings in storage and packs the basics. Stiles does the same and they're leaving Beacon Hills in less than a week. They drive for hours, wanting to put as much distance between them and Beacon Hills as possible. They drive up the coast, because Stiles wants to see the water, until they hit Eureka and stop for the night. The hotel isn't anything special, but it's not a Motel 6 so Chris is happy.

Chris follows Stiles in to the hotel lobby, carrying their duffel bags over his shoulder. The lady at the front desk smiles that way that all customer service workers do and he answers back with a polite nod.

"We have a reservation under Argent," Stiles says, leaning against the desk.

"Okay," the clerk says brightly, typing their name into her computer. "Oh, I see you have a room with one king-size bed."

"Yeah?" Stiles says.

"Will you and your dad be needing a roll away bed?" the clerk asks.

"My dad's dead," Stiles snaps. She snatches the key from the stammering woman and turns on her heel, heading for the elevator. Chris deals with the paperwork, ignoring the clerk's apologies, before following Stiles.

"Does is bother you?" Stiles asks when they're locked in their room, mountain ash at the door. "That people are going to think you're my dad?"

Stiles is flopped on the bed, watching as Chris unpacks his bag (Stiles had given him so much shit for being one of those people that unpacks when he gets to a hotel, but he likes to have his clothes ready and honestly, he's just happy something can make her laugh).

"No," Chris says. He sits at the end of the bed, hand wrapping around her ankle.

"Why?" Stiles asks. He knows what she's really asking. Why doesn't it bother you that people will think I'm your daughter when your actual daughter is dead? 

"Because I'm not your dad," Chris says. "When you get to be my age, it's hard to care about people's perceived notions about you, except for how you can use them."

"You sound like Peter," Stiles says with a small smile.

"Peter's a dick," Chris says. "But he's a smart dick."

Stiles snorts and rests her head on her arms. Chris squeezes her ankle before standing and grabbing his toiletries and going to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he comes back, Stiles is down to just her t-shirt and underwear. She pinches his ass when she walks by on her way into the bathroom. She doesn't take long and it's just a few minutes before she's turning off the light and crawling under the covers. She immediately gravitates to Chris' side, worming her way under his arm. 

"I'm too tired to fuck," she says. "How is that even possible? All we did was sit in a car all day."

Chris laughs.

They make it through Oregon and into Washington when the texts and calls start. Stiles puts her phone on mute, glancing down occasionally to give Chris status updates. Ten missed texts. Twenty-five, forty. Then eight missed calls. Then they start on Chris' phone. They ignore all of them until they get to Seattle and check into their hotel for the night. Most of the messages and calls are from Scott, but a few are from Lydia and a couple from Malia and Melissa. There's one text from Peter that simply says _They noticed you're gone._ Chris doesn't answer it.

"Where are we even going?" Stiles asks, stripping out of her clothes. Chris can't help but watch her from where he's sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes traveling over the curves of her body. Stiles smirks and walks closer, stepping between his spread knees. His hands immediately rest on her hips like they have a million times before.

"The goal was to get to a less supernaturally-volatile area than Beacon Hills," Chris says, rubbing his thumbs over the soft skin of her hips. "Now that we're gone, we can go anywhere."

"Hmm," Stiles says. She crawls into his lap, her hot core pressing against the bulge in his jeans. "I hear Ireland's nice. I've always wanted to find out if fairies are real."

"Fairies are real," Chris says, trailing hands down her back. "And they'd absolutely hate you."

"Rude!" Stiles says, smacking him on the shoulder. "People love me, I'm a goddamn delight!"

"Uh huh," he says, kissing up her neck.

"Yes huh," she says, but her voice is getting breathy. "A wonderful, uh, great...person..."

"Mmm," Chris says, turning them and laying her down on the bed. There's something about having her nude underneath him while he's fully clothed that always does something to him. 

It does something to Stiles, too, because she tugs him down by the shirt and says, "Fuck it," before kissing him, pressing her body against his.

Chris lets himself get lost in her skin under his hands, in her kisses and her touches. He gets her off twice before he even undresses, then buries himself inside her where she's hot and wet. She shouts his name when she comes again and he follows quickly, sucking a mark on her breast as he empties inside her.

He'll see about flights tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Minor character death is the sheriff. Sorry babes.
> 
>  
> 
> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


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